


one step two step

by FoxGlade



Category: Dragon Booster
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Neurodiversity, and a suspicious lack of dragons, excessive use of headcanons due to lack of actual canon backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 22:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6096611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxGlade/pseuds/FoxGlade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His entire world doesn't revolve around Artha, but sometimes it feels like it does.</p><p>(or, eight moments in the life and times of Parmon Sean, as influenced for better or worse by one Artha Penn)</p>
            </blockquote>





	one step two step

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy. this fic was an adventure, and written entirely for myself (and shena too, i guess. the blame is solely on you for re-introducing this series into my life, btw). I'm 90% sure the motivation behind this can be summed up by our enduring headcanon of parm being autistic, and he and artha having dumb crushes on each other. humble origins for a 5k+ word fic, but here we are.
> 
> i wrote the majority of it back in early 2015, and then moved onto other things and left it sitting incomplete in my folders until today, when a sudden burst of nostalgia and motivation made me add to it, edit it, and finish it all up. there are a lot more pieces to this fic that never got written, and are now lost to the sands of time, but it's complete enough for me to be happy finally publishing it.
> 
> so, to the incredibly small target audience of this fic, enjoy!!

The travel dock is overwhelmingly noisy, packed with people, and soon to be devoid of the Sean family, and thus everything Parmon hates.

“And don’t touch your papers unless someone official asks for them, alright?” his mother says, wringing her hands. She’s nervous, but she’s smiling, and it’s slightly confusing but Parmon thinks he understands. Sunlight Heights, with all its winding roadways and chilling gales and pale, dusty sunlight filtering through the tangle of buildings, is their home, and she doesn’t like sending him away. But there’s been fighting in the lower levels lately, dragon shrieks and the electric hum of mag streams echoing through the city night after night. It’s no place for a six year old, she’d said as she’d packed his bag with shaking hands, pacing between his cupboard and his bed in rapid, bird-like steps. No place at all. Better that he stay with an old family friend over in Dragon City.

“I put a few snacks in there for the trip, it’ll be enough until you get to Liya’s house,” she continues, patting his backpack and then smoothing down his shirt. Her hands haven’t stopped moving in days.

“Thanks, mum,” he says. He doesn’t tell her that the dim streets of Dragon City scare him more than Sunlight Heights’ pathways ever could, nor that Liya’s numerous children, who he’s only met once, are strange and intimidating. “I’ll vidd you when I get to the port in the City.”

His mother gives him another smile. “That’s my boy,” she says, and hugs him close. It blocks out the noise around him slightly when he presses his face into her shoulder. “Be good for Liya,” she says when they separate. She stands and adjusts the strap of her bag, and continues, “I’ll be there as soon as I can. It’ll take a little while, but I’ll come to the City, alright?”

“Okay, mum,” he says. His mother looks up and bites her lip as if listening to an announcement. He can’t hear anything over the noise of the people running back and forth around them, but she must be able to, because she gestures towards Gate 3, the gate on his ticket. “Bye.”

She waves, and the smile slips from her face.

 

The directions from the Dragon City Port of Travel to Liya’s house are easy to remember. “Left, three blocks, Pyrrhic Avenue, Tempest Street, five blocks, green block next to the Hiroh Noodle Pot,” Parmon recites, moving his hands with each instruction. He’s good at remembering directions.

The roadways of Dragon City are strange and unfamiliar, one moment orderly and square, the next moment winding at odd angles under and over other streets. He clutches his bag straps tighter. An instruction like “three blocks” is faintly useless when he can’t even tell what a block _is_ in this city. But he can read the street signs, at least, and that gets him to Pyrrhic Avenue easily enough. It’s only after he’s walked up the street and come to a dead stop at the intersection that he realises that there’s no Tempest Street connected to it.

That can’t be right. He keeps his breathing slow and steady as he looks back down the street – there are four streets leading off it, and two of them don’t have signs. Obviously it must be one of them, he deduces with all the certainty of a slightly panicked six year old. All he has to do is walk down each of them until he finds Hiroh’s Noodle Pot.

Ten minutes later, he’s still walking down the first unnamed street, which had turned out to be just as winding and confusing as the road leading from the port, and he’s now not so much “slightly panicked” as “having trouble breathing”. The city isn’t as dark as it had seemed in holovids and news reports, but it’s still full of shadows that shift unpredictably, making his heart race every time one shifts in the corner of his eye. At least there’s no one around – or is that a bad thing..?

From around the corner of another side street there’s a loud crash, and without thinking, Parmon lets out a small shriek and dives behind the nearest dumpster.

From where he’s hastily squished himself between the metal of the dumpster and the rough polycrete of the building behind him, he hears a scolding voice, and then the rapid slapping of shoes on road surface. The footsteps get louder, closer, and then there’s a pale face peering around the edge of the dumpster. “Hi,” the kid says. “Are you okay?”

Parmon stares.

“Okay,” he says, and disappears. Parmon only has a second to feel a strange mix of relief and disappointment before he hears the kid yell out, “MOM!”

Another pair of footsteps sound out, clacking and hurried on the pavement. “Artha, we don’t have time for this,” a deeper voice – presumably ‘Mom’ – says.

“But there’s a boy behind the dumpster!” Artha insists. There’s a pause, then another scuffle, and then a woman appears around the corner of the dumpster.

“Oh,” she says. “Well. Hello.” She waves. Parmon stares. “Are you lost?”

His mother had never had to tell him not to talk to strangers – he doesn’t like to talk to many people at all, let alone people he doesn’t even know. But he _was_ lost… He bit his lip, then nodded jerkily.

“Oh dear,” the lady says. “Alright. Maybe we can help?”

“I can help!” Artha says. “I never get lost.”

Parmon taps his fingertips together, nervously thinking over his choices. He could refuse, stay hidden until they were gone – would they leave if he said no? The lady looks nice, and Artha isn’t poking at him like Liya’s children did. Maybe…

“I can’t find my mum’s friend’s house,” he says. His chest still feels tight with panic, and the words come out thin. “She said it was next to--” he heaves a breath, “--next to the Noodle Pot.”

The lady nods, and he relaxes slightly. “No wonder you couldn’t find it,” she says, smiling a little, “you’re on the wrong street. And that place closed down a few months ago.” Oh. “But you got close! We could show you the way from here, couldn’t we, Artha?” she continues, looking down at the boy. Artha nods frantically.

His mother had always told him that he was a sensible young boy, and that she trusted him to make the right decisions. He just hopes this is one of them. “Okay,” Parmon says, and stands up slowly, inching out from behind the dumpster.

The lady smiles, but doesn’t offer her hand for him to take before she starts off down the road. Artha gives a gap-toothed grin and hurries after her, and Parm, suddenly much more sure of his choice, follows.

 

 

 

Although Parm isn’t a stickler for routine, he can’t deny that it’s comforting, following the same patterns every day.

“Miko told Damaspia that she didn’t want to talk to her, but then she was sitting alone and looked sad,” he says. Artha, walking along the railing above him with arms outstretched, makes a sort of ‘pfft’ noise.

“Erron told her not to talk to Damaspia anymore, since she’s _his_ best friend now,” he answers. He looks confident in his response and his balance, but it makes Parm nervous to watch, so he pulls the drapple fruit he’s been saving out of his pack. Sure enough, a second later the slap of shoes hitting pavement echoes, and Artha smiles up at him innocently until Parm hands it over, just like he always does.

“Do people really do that?” he asks. Artha’s been making him watch more vidd dramas lately, to improve his social recognition, but he can never tell when the show is playing up a situation or when they’re portraying it as it is in real life. Artha shrugs.

“I guess,” he says through a mouthful of fruit. “Erron’s being mean, though. Miko was really sad about it too.”

“Was she?” She’d seemed happy enough playing with Erron.

“Yeah. You know how usually she plays drac-chase with everyone?” Artha says. He pulls a face and picks at a blemish on the drapple fruit then continues, “She made Erron do a puzzle with her today.”

“I know _that_.” That is to say, he’d noticed that she’s broken her regular pattern, but he hadn’t thought to link it to any emotion – he’d been guessing that she was feeling sick.

“Well, it was because she was sad,” Artha informs him, and he believes it.

They’re almost home now, and Artha’s eyeing a crumbling stone pillar to their right, so he says, “What about Saskia?”

It pulls Artha’s attention off the pillar, to say the least. “What about her?” he says, crossing his arms.

“She asked me what I was doing this afternoon after school,” Parm reminds him. “She looked disappointed when I told her. I think.”

“She was disappointed,” Artha confirms. His eyes are narrowed, just like they had been after Saskia had walked away. For a second he stops walking and looks as if he’s chewing the inside of his lip. Parm watches in interest; Artha’s never hesitated to explain a social situation to him before. Finally, he blurts out, “She wanted to ask you on a date.”

A date. “Isn’t that where adults go and have dinner and drink wine together?” he asks, nose wrinkling. Artha shrugs.

“Not _just_ that, dummy.” Parm huffs, and Artha continues, “People just go out and do whatever together.” They continue walking, but Artha keeps his eyes forward, almost hidden behind his long bangs. “She probably wanted to go to the arcade with you or something.”

“Oh.” For a minute he tries to imagine what that would have been like. Awkward, is the first thing his mind supplies him with. He barely knows Saskia – what would they have talked about?

“Well, I’m glad she didn’t,” he says after a while. Artha looks over at him then, and he has a wide-eyed, pleased expression that Parm recognizes from when he hears good news, like when Conner tells them that they’ll be going to see a race at the All City Racing Circuit.

“Good,” Artha says, and then turns red and looks away, hiding behind his bangs again. Parm’s heart jumps a little at the sight, and he tentatively thinks about asking whether doing homework together and eating snacks could count as a date. But, he decides as the sign for Penn Stables comes into sight, that’s probably one social situation he shouldn’t ask Artha about.

 

 

 

The All-City Racing Circuit is exciting and loud and full of people, which Parm has gotten much more used to since he first arrived in Dragon City, but it can still get overwhelming at times. Less now, since he’d learned enough about the mechanics and technology of racing to be able to focus on that one aspect. Artha’s always happy to have him along at these things anyway, even if he never listens to Parm’s enthusiastic commentary on the technical skills of the racers.

He’d even specifically asked Parm to come with them to this race, instead of just assuming Parm would attend as usual. It was important, he’d said – for one, it’s a Dragball match, and one of the players is a friend of Conner’s, and for another, it’s the final event before Parm leaves for his stint at the university in Sun City.

But despite all he’s gotten used to, he still winces at the blare of the score siren. His hands twitch, wanting to cover his ears against the noise of the crowd, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Artha look at him in concern.

“Are you okay?” he says, yelling over the crowd but obviously trying not to be too loud. It doesn’t really work, but Parm appreciates the effort.

“Fine,” he replies, but his hand twitches again. Artha gives him another sideways look, and then, as confidently as he does anything, reaches out and grabs his hand, stilling it in his own.

“Does that help?” he asks, face earnest. Parm isn’t sure if it’s the grounding sensation of the action or the extremely distracting way he can feel blood rushing to his cheeks and ears, but it does help.

“Er, yes,” he says after a moment, coughing a little and looking back to the Dragball court. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t see Artha’s wide grin, but he can feel it like sunlight.

 

 

 

He comes back from his term in the Gardens University Library with wide eyes and pockets full of electronics and much, much shorter hair. In all honesty, he’d completely forgotten about the haircut until, walking up to Penn Stables for the first time in months, Artha spots him and immediately runs toward him, yelling something that Parm can’t make out. The force of the hug almost knocks him over.

“You’re back!” Artha says, grinning hard enough that Parm can feel it against his shoulder. He hugs him back, only slightly awkwardly, and then pulls away. “Did you learn secret Ancient Dragon stuff? Did you go to Old City? Did you bring me anything?!” Abruptly changing conversational track, he frowns and pokes at Parm’s closely-cropped curls. “You got a haircut. It’s weird.”

“Moths kept flying into it,” Parm says, which is only slightly true and definitely not why he cut it, but it makes Artha laugh. “And yes, I brought you a few things. I… um. I missed you.”

“I missed you too, Parm,” Artha replies, still hanging onto Parm’s shoulders, and it’s so much less awkward than he’d feared – as if he’d never left at all, really. “Come on, Dad made cookies.”

“Oh dear,” Parm says, and Artha laughs, and it’s only until they’re halfway through a viddgame competition that he realises his heart hasn’t sped up once at the sight of Artha’s smile or the sound of his laughter.

 

 

 

When the dust clears, after Beau is hidden in plain sight under his new red and blue disguise and a start has been made on clearing the rubble from Penn Stables, Parm has to quietly excuse himself from Artha’s side and answer the call that has his console buzzing.

“Are you alright?” his mother asks, not exactly frantic but with a nervous energy.

“I’m fine, mum,” he says, then immediately adds, “And Artha and Lance are fine as well.” She may not know them very well, but he knows how she worries.

“The news was talking about Conner,” she says. “Is he..?”

Parm’s heavy silence is enough answer. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I understand if you want to stay with them for a while.”

“I think it would be best,” Parm says. He hesitates, then says, “I’ll be careful.”

Seleb Sean is not one for emotional expression, but she does muster a smile at that. “That’s my boy,” she says. “I’ll call again in a few days.” The screen goes blank.

 

 

 

Parm remembers the weeks after Fira died clearly. The way the streets seemed darker, Artha’s sudden habit of clutching at his jacket sleeves whenever they were together. The quiet of the house.

This isn’t like that.

Artha’s had dark circles under his eyes for the past few days, even as he’d kept smiling, kept training and telling Lance that it’s going to be fine. It was the least Parm could do to pull Lance into a viddgame contest for long enough to let Artha slip away for a much-needed break.

As it turns out, helping Artha take care of Lance isn’t much different from babysitting Lance, which he’s done more than enough times in his life. It is slightly intimidating to suddenly not have the safety net of Conner, but… Well. It’s not like there’s anything he can do about that.

“Did they give you any schoolwork to do over the break?” he asks Lance, then immediately winces as his dragon is blasted with a projectile forcefield. Lance’s dragon shoots past him as the boy himself crows in victory.

“A bit,” he says once he’s done celebrating. “It’s all easy, though.”

Parm hums. It’s probably a good thing, given how he remembers the last time he tried to tutor Lance. Onscreen, Lance’s dragon races over the finish line, Parm’s a few seconds behind. “Scales.”

“So what’s the score now?” Lance asks, grin still firmly in place. “Five to zero? Is that the score?”

“Very funny, Lance,” Parm tells him, then stands up and stretches. “Are you hungry yet?”

“Yeah!” With all the energy of a ten year old, Lance jumps to his feet and starts racing to the kitchen, only to be caught by the sleeve and held back. “Let’s have Scale Crisps!”

“Scale Crisps aren’t dinner,” Parm says, not for the first time. “Keep playing, I’ll get Artha and see what we can make.”

Lance, resilient as he is, shrugs and picks up the console controller, starting another game as Parm heads for Conner’s office.

Artha is sitting at the desk, chin resting on his crossed arms as he stares up at the holo display in front of him. The writing on it isn’t discernable from the doorway, but Parm can take a guess at what it says.

“I was thinking of making something to eat, if you wanted a, um, a break from… this,” he says. Artha lifts his head to look at him, then leans back and sighs.

“Yeah,” he says. He rubs his face with his hands. “I was just looking over the bills. There’s a lot of them.” Some expression passes over his face, something close to panic, before he closes his eyes, hands tugging at each other. For a second he looks almost like Parm when he’s caught in sensory overload, and it’s that more than anything that makes him scurry forward and, somewhat more hesitantly, take one of Artha’s hands in his.

“Does this help?” he asks. He can feel himself start to blush, struck by the sudden thought that Artha probably doesn’t even remember –

But then Artha smiles, not a grin but something slower, something warm and fond. “It does,” he says, and squeezes his hand.

 

 

 

It’s Kitt’s first win in three races, and Artha came second, so it’s more than enough of an excuse to go out for a night of celebration.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Parm frets, wringing his hands a little. Lance, of course, has been left behind. It’s only Artha, Kitt and Parm wandering down to the club district of Mid City, skirting the shadows of the darkly lit streets.

“C’mon, Parm, it’ll be great!” Artha laughs, slinging an arm around Parm’s shoulders. Parm gives him the stink eye, but doesn’t shrug off the arm. Kitt hides a laugh behind her hand.

Honestly, they don’t need much of any substance to add to their celebration, as amped up on their victory as they already are, Parm thinks. But Artha _has_ been training rather hard as of late, so he won’t be the one to ruin their fun. (He’d been hoping Conner would, but he’d just waved them off with a fond smile.)

“Ooh, we should go to the Red Door,” Kitt says suddenly. Artha snorts.

“Seriously?” he says. “That place is lame. L Street is where it’s at.”

“More like _Loser_ Street,” Kitt retorts.

“Maybe we could just go to that nice cafe there?” Parm suggests weakly, pointing to the cosily-lit shop on the corner. He is soundly ignored.

“C’moooooon, Parmesan,” Artha says, squeezing his shoulders. Parm huffs and rolls his eyes. “It won’t be like last time, I promise.”

“Last time?” Kitt asks. Neither answer, but Artha smothers a brief giggle.

Eventually they agree on a bar and stumble in, ordering a Slusho each and a DracBoost for Kitt on the side. The drinks come together, and Parm and Artha watch in brief awe as Kitt pours her shot into the Slusho without hesitation and starts to drink, not stopping until it’s half empty.

“You gonna start on those? Or do I need to do it for you?” she asks when she sees them staring. Artha hastily starts to gulp his drink, and valiantly attempts to conceal his coughing fit. It works, somewhat. Parm, on the other hand, takes a tentative sip, and pulls a face.

“This is really a common drink?” he asks suspiciously. It would be just like them to give him some beverage that no one in their right dragon mind would drink.

“It’s like, at least the… fifth common drink ordered here?” Artha says, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s fine, Parm!” As if to prove it, he drains the last of his drink and grins, teeth stained ever-so-slightly purple by the drink. It is definitely not at all endearing, Parm thinks, and takes another sip. On second thought, it’s not entirely bad…

A Toolbox, a Mag Stream shot and a Shadow Town Electric later, and Parm is having trouble stopping giggling. There’s nothing particularly funny about the situation - okay, no, the faces Artha is pulling are definitely reason enough, but in some distant part of his brain, he still registers it as odd.

“And- and he said, ‘see you later, Dragon _Blunder’_ ,” Artha finishes, and Kitt cracks up, pounding a hand flat on the table. Parm just keeps giggling, tapping his fingers against the empty glass in front of him.

It’s strange, to be this relaxed, as if he’s just drifting along rather than being flung between stressful event after harrowing episode. Strange, but…. nice, he decides. Especially nice with Artha sitting close at his side, their shoulder pressed together and Artha’s foot occasionally tapping against his own.

“ _One_ of us has to beat him,” Kitt says, brandishing her drink like a weapon. Parm blinks and tries to refocus on the conversation. “I mean, _obviously_ I’m going to win this thing, but, you know. As long as _he_ doesn’t win, I’ll be happy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Artha says. “Keep sayin’ it, but I’m gonna be the one with the Academy acceptance letter at the end of this. Right Parm?” he adds, jostling Parm with an elbow. Parm jumps and, inexplicably, blushes again, which is embarrassing even in his inebriated state.

“Oh, uh… I, um,” he says.

“Haaaah,” Kitt drawls. “Stable Boy is on my side.”

“I thought I was Stable Boy?” Artha says, in an offended tone of voice.

“You’re both stable boys,” Kitt says dismissively, and it’s stupid but Parm’s heart warms slightly. It’s not like he doesn’t know that he’s been an accepted part of the Penn household for over ten years, but it’s nice to hear outside confirmation occasionally. Even if it isn’t quite what the speaker intended it to be.

They stay in the bar a little while longer, but soon enough they head back to Penn Stables, weaving unsteadily through the streets, supporting each other and alternatingly whispering and shouting their conversations (Parm does most of the whispering, Artha does most of the shouting, although Kitt gives him a run for his money, almost literally at one point). When they do reach home, Artha makes a point of shushing everyone aggressively, whispering that he doesn’t want to wake Lance, even though Parm is certain that he’s holed up in his room playing viddgames and mainlining DraconiYum bars. The second Kitt sees the couch, her energy drops as if it’s being drained out of her, and Artha giggles slightly at the sound of her snores as they stumble towards Artha’s bedroom. As always, the mattress that Parm has been using since he was five years old is there, and honestly he’s as ready to just lie down and pass out as Kitt was.

“Good thing we don’t have another race for a while,” Artha mumbles, then yawns. “I need to sleep,” he says. It’s a reasonable enough statement. Slightly less reasonable is the fact that he grabs Parm a moment later, squeaking in protest, and drags him down until he’s lying in bed against Artha’s side. He lies there rigidly while Artha tosses and turns, adjusting blankets and shifting positions until he finally settles with an arm around Parm’s waist and his face buried in Parm’s shoulder.

“Just go to sleep,” he mumbles. And, surprisingly, Parm finds it really isn’t that difficult to relax, to turn slightly towards Artha and slow his breathing until he does exactly as Artha had asked.

Of course, he regrets it greatly when Conner comes in to wake them in the morning, but that’s in the future. For now, there’s only the warmth of Artha at his side, and the sound of slow breathing to lull him to sleep.

 

 

 

The alarm goes off at 0500, and Parm’s only consolation is the sound of Artha’s pitiful groans across the room. “This was your idea,” he grumbles, fumbling a hand out until he finds the STOP button on the console.

“You’re supposed to shut down my terrible ideas, not agree to them,” Artha shoots back, but he’s already pulling himself out from under the covers anyway. He hunts around for a shirt that doesn’t smell like Beau’s sleeping quarters until Parm starts snoring again, and then he drags back the blankets on Parm’s mattress, ignoring his squawks.

Somehow they manage to get dressed and collect their packs without falling back asleep or tripping over each other more than twice. They sneak out to the stables, passing Lance’s room and the couch that Kitt’s asleep on without waking either of them (although Parm has to stop Artha from taking a picture of Kitt drooling in her sleep), and minutes later they’re walking through the darkened streets on their dragons.

“You think the Market’d be- be open this early?” Artha says around a yawn.

“Of course it would be,” Parm says, then checks the digital route he’d carefully prepared yesterday. “But it’s a little out of the way. We probably wouldn’t make it to the top in time if we stopped there…”

“Alright,” Artha says with a shrug. “Wish I’d bought some food, then. I’m starting to get-” He breaks off as Parm tosses a drapple fruit at him, barely catching it. “… hungry,” he finishes. He grins at Parm, the same grin he’s been giving him without a thought for over ten years, and it’s been a long time since that grin has made his heart skip a beat, but. Well. Some things you never forget.

“I knew you wouldn't think to eat before we left,” Parm says, hoping he’s not blushing.

“Always looking out for me,” Artha replies, still grinning, then urges Beau on a little faster, leaving Parm to catch up in his wake.

They take the direct route up to Sun City, with Parm leading the way, since Artha’s only been up there once or twice. Even then, it’s a while before they reach the open air of the top level of Dragon City, and longer still before Parm figures out the best way to get their dragons onto the roof. But when the sun finally comes up over the distant rim of the horizon, all four of them are sitting on the rooftop of the Gardens University Library, overlooking the glinting spires of Dragon Academy.

“I can’t believe we’re finally gonna be there,” Artha says softly. He’s dangling his legs over the edge of the roof, casual in a way that makes Parm fidget nervously. Parm himself is sitting a few metres back, a _sensible_ distance from the edge. “I mean, Dragon Academy. We’re going to Dragon Academy _today_.”

It’s been two weeks since the final elimination match against Moordryd, but… “It is a little hard to process,” Parm agrees.

“We’re going back to _school_ ,” Artha adds, with a tone of voice that Parm knows means he’s making a stupid face. He huffs a laugh.

“Well, it is a racing school,” he replies. “Surely it will be _slightly_ more interesting than Mid City Institution 3.”

Artha glances back at him. “Don’t remind me,” he says with laughter in his voice. “Man, last time I was in school, I had long hair. It’s been a while, yeah?”

“My hair was practically bigger than my head,” Parm says ruefully, running a hand over his curls. Artha laughs again, shaking his head at the memory, and Parm smiles hesitantly before walking over and (carefully, gently) easing himself onto the ledge next to him.

“Oh, wow, I’d seriously almost forgotten about that,” Artha says, and his grin is infectious enough that soon Parm is laughing too. They sit there in the early morning light, giggling over memories, occasionally punctuated by choked comments like, “You kept _styluses_ in there!” and “Remember when you let Lance braid it?” until they calm down.

“You were such a dork,” Artha says, and ignores Parm’s offended scoff. “I can’t believe I had a crush on you back then.”

“You were a ‘dork’ too, you know,” Parm replies, a second before his thought process grinds to a halt. “Uh. What?”

“I had a total crush on you, man, it was embarrassing!” Artha laughs. Parm splutters.

“But- that was- _I_ had a crush on _you!”_ he manages. In an instant Artha stops laughing, and instead looks faintly stunned.

“What- seriously?” he asks. Parm nods jerkily. They both stared at each other, caught somewhere between awkward and disbelieving, until Artha’s lip twitches slightly. It’s all the warning Parm gets before Artha burst into wild, breathless laughter, doubling over and clutching his stomach with the force of it.

“Artha?” Parm asks tentatively. “Are you..?”

“We never even _realised!”_ Artha hoots, and yes, alright, Parm can kind of see the funny side now. He snorts, and then starts to laugh, and before he knows it he’s cackling as loud as Artha, loud enough that Beau and Cyrano lumber over to check on them before shaking their heads derisively.

They’ll need to head back soon, to finish packing the last of their gear and to make the last arrangements before they head to the Academy with Kitt and Lance. But for now, it’s enough to have this moment, under the light of the newly risen sun.


End file.
